


Discere. Vivere. Ut Amor.

by ProneToRelapse



Series: Demons & Domesticity [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Death, Demonic Bargains, Demons, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-06 21:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15204056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: Hank makes a deal. His immortal soul for the life of his son. It isn't his soul the demon wants.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meaiku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meaiku/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Discere. Vivere. Ut Amor.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16105010) by [i identify as tired (grumpymess)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpymess/pseuds/i%20identify%20as%20tired)



> MEAIKU DID IT AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> I LOVE YOU, MEAIKU!!!!!!!!!!!!

When all else fails, sometimes the impossible path is the only route left to take. 

 

Hank hasn’t spoken to anyone in days. Hasn’t drawn his curtains, hasn’t left the house. Two weeks have passed since he’s even  _looked_ at another person. Two weeks since the funeral. Two weeks since Hank had to bury his son. 

 

Six years old. So little in the back of the ambulance, so tiny in the operating room, the coffin painfully small on the pallbearers’ shoulders. 

 

Hank doesn’t understand why he hadn’t been taken, too. Or  _instead of._ He’d spent days trapped in that cycle of why’s and what if’s, torturing himself beyond all reason, wallowing in the bottom of bottles, and stained clothes, throwing down all the photos in the house with enough force to crack the glass. 

 

Because there is no reason to death. A split second is all it takes to lose someone. To a patch of black ice, or one mistake with a scalpel. A split second, and the sound of the EKG flatlining will haunt him for the rest of his life. 

 

Hank will carry this pain with him until he finds the strength to pull the trigger. 

 

But Hank won’t give up that easily. He’s a fighter, always has been, and there isn’t a single thing on this godforsaken earth that Hank Anderson will not do for his son. 

 

Fuck what anybody else says. They can call him crazy, they can call him insane. He’s lost his fucking son, for fuck’s sake. And if this is the last chance he has, the last impossible path left to take before he puts a fucking bullet in his brain, he’s going to take it with both hands. Jump in head first, eyes closed, nothing to lose. 

 

So he plans. He researches. He trawls every website he can find, then when that yields little success, he finally drags himself out into the shitty world and seeks out the last few bookstores left in the whole of Detroit. 

 

None of them have what he wants. Not a single one.  

 

He can’t give up. He  _won’t._  

 

One last try. One last attempt. All he needs is a way in. 

 

He sends dozens, hundreds, of emails to anyone he can find, desperately seeking answers. He follows the instructions of every reply he gets, drawing sigils on his floorboards in white chalk, lighting candles, opening the front and back doors, chanting, blood-letting. He tries it all. 

 

Nothing. 

 

He can’t give up. He  _won’t._  

 

There has to be something he hasn’t tried. Another set of runes, a different chant,  _anything._ He’s too far gone to stop now. 

 

And then he gets an email. The first reply in days. From someone named E. Kamski. 

 

 _Good day, Mr Anderson,_  

 _I was intrigued by your email when you reached out to me, and incredibly sorry to hear about the passing of your son. I too have suffered loss in my time and, just like you, I sought answers._  

 _I have included several attachments with this email, some photos and instructions you must follow stringently. This can go terribly wrong if you do not pay the utmost attention to detail._  

 _I sincerely hope this brings you a small measure of peace._  

_Yours faithfully,_

_E. Kamski_

 

One last try. He has nothing left to lose. 

 

 

 

Slowly, carefully, Hank traces the sygils onto the wood, following the photos exactly. He traces the runes into the circle, shivering as each symbol drawn seems to lower the temperature in the room. He’s careful not to smudge the chalk, squinting in the low light of the candles throwing heavy shadows on the walls. It would almost be romantic, the soft candlelight, if his goal were different. 

 

He sits back on his feet, checking the circle against Kamski’s photos. From what he can see, it’s basically exact. He’s never been the best artist, but it looks passable. It has to be good enough. This is his last chance. 

 

He leans forward, one hand inside the circle, and takes a deep breath. He watches the clock on the wall tick closer and closer to midnight. The room gets colder with each passing second until his breath is clouding in front of his face. Still he watches the clock. Seconds stretch on like years. 

 

As the hand flicks up to midnight, Hank draws the blade of the sharpest knife in his kitchen across the center of his palm. Blood wells up in the path of the blade and drips down onto the stark white of the chalk on wood. The pain is clouded by the half bottle of whiskey in his system. He watches the blood spill over with a strange sense of detachment. 

 

Faintly, he’s aware of Sumo whining and pawing at his bedroom door but his brain doesn’t even register it. All he can focus on is the way the candlelight glints off his blood like red crystal.  

 

With a shuddering breath, he recites the words that are burned into his memory from hours spent memorising them. They burn on his tongue, foreign and heavy in his mouth.  

 

 _“_ _Spiritibus_ _,_ _te_ _rogamus_ _vos_ _,”_  Hank chants, shuddering as the room somehow gets even colder. The flames of the candles flicker. There is no wind.  _“_ _Audi_ _me_ _hercle_ _causa. Apparent_ _coram_ _me._ _Hercle_ _factum. Volo_ _tibi_ _imperare_ _!”_  

 

Nothing.  

 

There’s nothing. 

 

His last chance. A failure.  

 

Tears prick at his eyes and his whole body shudders as the numbness of the past weeks makes way for the icy hot surge of renewed grief. Some part of him had hoped beyond all logic and sanity that this would work, that he’d be able to see his son again. Of course he was wrong. Of course. 

 

The tears that spill from his eyes drip onto the floor.  

 

With a soft clink like glass. 

 

Hank opens his eyes. Two tear drops, frozen before they hit the floor. 

 

How...? 

 

Hank sucks in a breath as ice splinters across the circle, crackling across the wood until the whole thing is frozen. The blood dripping from Hank’s palm freezes, too, the droplets solidifying like scarlet diamonds.  

 

One by one, the candles go out. Hank’s breathing picks up, fear prickling along his skin.  

 

Bathed in sudden darkness, Hank screws his eyes shut, trying to breathe through the rising fear. 

 

 _He wanted this. He wants this. He needed an answer. Please, please let this be it._  

 

A sharp crack like the shattering of glass snaps Hank’s eyes open. Slowly he lifts his head. 

 

The circle isn’t empty any more. 

 

Standing inside it, still as marble, is a young man, pale, dressed in a sharp blue suit. He’s fairly attractive, but there’s something about his face, something deeply unsettling. 

 

It’s his eyes, pitch black in the darkness of the room. There’s no life inside them, no flicker of emotion. 

 

His face is like a mask, stone-still and unmoving, like a porcelain doll and twice as creepy. If Hank hadn’t called this...  _Thing_ here himself, he’d hardly believe what he was looking at. 

 

“I hear you,” says the creature. Hank can’t call him a man. Whatever it is, it’s  _not_ human. “And I answer. Why have you called me, mortal?” 

 

Hank can’t force the words out. His tongue feels like it’s frozen. Not a single muscle on that unholy face moves except for those lips. Not a twitch of eyelids or a flare of nostrils as he breathes. The icy air stings his lungs as he draws a shaky breath. 

 

“I want... I want my son back.” Hank swallows thickly. “Cole Anderson. I want him back. Alive.” With a shudder, Hank hauls himself upright so he can stare into those cold, dark eyes. 

 

The creature doesn’t answer, he just watches, unmoving.  

 

“You can do that, right?” Hank demands. “Give him back to me?” 

 

“Cole Anderson,” the creature says in that soft pitched voice. “Died at twelve-fifteen PM on October eleventh fifteen days ago in Henry Ford Hospital.” The words slice through Hank like knives. “You want him returned to you, alive and well. That is your wish?” 

 

“More than anything.” Hank’s voice cracks.  

 

“I will grant your request,” the creature says. “What will you give me as recompense.” 

 

Nothing to lose. Everything to gain.  

 

“My soul,” Hank says at once, no hint of hesitation in his voice. That’s what they want, right? These creatures, these demons? Human souls. Everything he read says they crave them like a drug. 

 

“No,” says the creature, ripping Hank out of his miserable thoughts. 

 

“ _No?”_  

 

“No,” the creature repeats in that cold, empty tone. “I have no need of your soul. It would be useless to me.” 

 

And grief gives way to unbridled  _rage._  

 

“Then, _shit,_ what the fuck do you want from me?!” Hank cries. “You want blood? Bodies? Spit it out, asshole.  _What do you want?”_  

 

The creature does not answer. He just keeps watching, watching, with that same empty mask.  

 

Ignoring every warning his mind is screaming at him, Hank grabs the unholy prick by the lapels of his stupid suit, wrenching him closer so they’re almost nose to nose. The creature does not react.  

 

“Tell me what you fucking want,” Hank snarls. “Tell me or I’ll fucking make you.” 

 

But what if... What if Hank can’t give this thing what he wants? What if there’s nothing he can give that is worth the life of his son? 

 

He’s failed. 

 

Failed to keep him alive. Failed as a father. Now he can’t even sell himself well enough to a  _demon_ to trade his soul for the life of his only son, the light of his life. 

 

Hank’s body starts to shake, hands shuddering where they’re gripping the creature’s suit. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, just give him back. I’ll do anything.” 

 

He lets go, hands falling limply to his sides. All the fight has left him. It’s over. 

 

“Fascinating,” the creature murmurs. “Are all humans so weak to their emotions, or is it just you?” 

 

Hank stares at him. “What?” 

 

“You’re very uniquely expressive,” the creature says. “I’ve not seen anything like it in all my years.” 

 

“I... I guess?” Hank hedges. “Humans just... Feel shit. All the time. Sometimes it... boils over.” 

 

“Clearly,” hums the creature. “Very well, Hank Anderson. I agree to your terms. In exchange for the life of your son, I want you to teach me to feel as humans do.” 

 

“You want me to fucking what.” 

 

The creature laughs, an abhorrent, lifeless sound. “You are a very singular individual. Now do we have a deal?” 

 

Hank hesitates. Teach a demon how to feel? Is he even capable of that? It feels like he doesn’t know how to do anything but grieve. Can he do it? 

 

For the life of his son? 

 

Of fucking course. 

 

“Deal,” Hank says, holding a hand out.  

 

The creature smiles a horrid, hollow curl of lips. “Seal it with a kiss,” he purrs and leans forward. Lips colder than ice brush against Hank’s own, and it feels like his very breath has been stolen from him. His entire body seizes up and his vision blurs until all he can see are those lifeless eyes empty and voidlike.  

 

“I hear you,” the creature murmurs against his mouth, breath like winter, “and I answer.” 

 

Hank shudders, something in the very core of his being  _burning,_ and with a faint gasp, his vision darkens, and he falls. 


	2. Chapter 2

Hank comes to uncomfortably aware of three things. 

First is the blinding headache thundering like a jackhammer inside his head. The second is the frantic slobbering of Sumo as he licks all over Hank’s face. And the third is the searing pain in the palm of his left hand.

That snaps him fully awake, eyes flying open. He shoves Sumo away and scrambles to sit up, looking around wildly. Unlit candles all around the room, the chalk runes scrawled on the hardwood, smudged by Hank’s clothes from when he fell. And the blood, dried a ruddy brown, that Hank had shed in a desperate plea for the return of his son. 

Not a dream. He’d actually… He’d summoned a…

Hank shudders and struggles to his feet, hauling ass into the kitchen to feed the slobbering beast pawing at his legs and to down as much coffee as he can before his heart explodes. 

If that… If last night actually happened and he didn’t hallucinate from the combination of whiskey and blood loss… Then Hank’s going to have to teach a demon how to feel. Which is probably the craziest thing he’ll ever do in his life. 

But if it brings Cole back… If this pays off and he gets to hold his son in his arms again, safe, warm and  _alive_ _..._  Then it’ll be worth it a thousand times over. 

If it wasn’t actually a fever dream. 

Hank heaves a shaky sigh and puts Sumo’s food down for him. The dog immediately shoves his face into the bowl and Hank gives his flank a firm pat before heading into the bathroom to clean up his hand. He does a shitty job, just pours iodine on it and wraps a bandage round it as best he can. Stings like a bitch, but it does the job. 

Now for coffee.  _So much_  coffee. 

Or it would be if his cell didn’t start shrieking. 

Fowler. Of course. 

Well, no point ignoring it. He snatches the phone up and answers, wedging it against his ear with his shoulder while he makes coffee. “Jeff,” he says shortly. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, will you answer your goddamn phone?”

“I’ve been fucking busy. And I  _did_  answer it, in case that wasn’t clear. Hello.”

“I meant— You know what, it doesn’t fucking matter. How are you holding up?”

Yesterday, Hank would’ve ripped him to shit for such a fucking stupid question. How the fuck did he expect him to be holding up. Now, though… Hank glances at the smudged summoning circle on his living room floor. 

“Uh, better,” he says. “Yeah, I… I’m stable.”

“You want to come back to work?”

“Fucking hell, Jeffery.”

“Well! It’s better than wallowing at home with a bottle of whiskey. It’ll keep you busy. Stop you dwelling on… everything.”

Yeah, like how and when he’s supposed to start teaching a demon how to emote. Christ. 

“I… Lemme think about it. Give me a day or so, alright?”

“Sure. And… You sound better. I’m glad.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck off,” Hank says, somewhat fondly. “Talk to you later.”

“Bye, Hank.”

Hank tosses his phone down on the side and downs three cups of black coffee in quick succession. He needs a fucking shower. And to mop the floor. 

Christ. 

Stepping into the station feels a little bit like coming home. The familiar sounds and smells offer a sense of comfort Hank hasn’t been able to feel in his horribly quiet house. Even with Sumo around it’s just… Too much. 

So the bustle of the precinct is a welcome distraction. 

He makes his way through the gate, trying to ignore the eyes that follow him as he heads through to the bullpen. He doesn’t want their pity, he just wants to get back to his job, to have a goal again. He keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, making a beeline for Fowler’s stupid office box, but is pulled up by a firm hand on his arm. He tenses, turning slowly to see who thinks it’s a good idea to get in his way today. 

“Chris,” Hank says, eyebrows shooting up. 

Chris offers him a warm smile. No pity, just warmth. “It’s great to see you, Hank,” he says. “Been pretty boring here without you. Welcome back.”

Hank’s breath catches. He’s surprised by the rush of gratitude he feels. It’s so simple, but it means so much that Chris isn’t just seeing him as the grieving parent without a child. 

“Thanks, Chris,” Hank says and means it. “It’s good to see you. Thanks for…”

He wants to say thanks for being at the funeral. Thanks for the beautiful flowers they’d sent for the service. Thanks for watching Sumo while Hank was at the hospital. Thanks for all the concerned voicemails. 

Thank you is all he can say. But Chris being Chris understands. 

He pats Hank’s shoulder as he lets go and Hank heads up to Fowler’s office, letting himself without knocking. Fowler looks up with a scowl that smooths out when he sees who it is. 

“Hank,” he says with a nod. “Good to see you.”

“Thanks.” He flops down into the chair opposite Fowler with a huff. “So, you want me back?”

“Obviously,” Fowler says with the twitch of his mouth that’s as close to a smile as he gets. “You’re the only one who can put Reed in his place.”

Hank snorts. “Kid better stay outta my way is all I’m saying.”

“I’m sure he will. Now, you gonna be alright back on homicide?”

“Sure,” Hank says. “I want everything to just go back to normal. I’m ready to work. Just point me wherever.”

“Good. You’ve got a couple forms to fill in before we can let you have your firearm again. But your badge is on your desk.”

“Appreciate it.”

“And your new partner is waiting.”

Hank’s brain stalls. He rewinds and replays those words over. “My what is what now?”

“Your partner,” Fowler repeats. “Don’t give me that look. He’s a good kid. Top of his class, just like you. Did his time on the beat, and came to us fresh into his promotion to detective.”

“Fucking hell, Jeffery, you think I’m in a good place to lead around a rookie right now?!”

“No. But I think having someone at your side for the next few months will keep you on the right path. I’m not saddling you with a newbie just because I can. I’m doing it because I know it’ll help.”

Hank groans. “Jeffery—“

“Dismissed, Hank. Get the fuck back to work.”

Hank scowls as he leaves the office, but fuck if he’s not grateful for this son of a bitch having his back. Even if having a rookie partner is gonna be fucking annoying. 

He heads to his desk and flops down into the chair with something close to a contented sigh. Things aren’t okay yet. But the ache in his bandaged palm and the ghost of an icy kiss on his lips serve as stark reminders of the bargain he struck. He just has to hold out a little longer and hope that soon he’ll see Cole again, smiling that wide, beautiful grin that made Hank’s heart fill with love. It’s a bittersweet memory, but he clings to it with everything he has. 

And settling back into a routine will help keep him occupied so he doesn’t freak out about potentially babysitting an emotionless demon. 

God, he must be losing his mind. If only—

“Ah, Lieutenant Anderson. I was wondering when I’d finally meet you face to face.”

Every hair on Hank’s body stands on end, unease prickling over his skin. That  _voice_. Cold, emotionless, hollow. He knows that voice. It’s echoed in his nightmares for the past three nights. 

He spins in his chair. Standing nearby, dressed in that same crisp blue suit, cup off coffee in hand, is the demon he summoned into his living room with his blood. 

“My name is Connor,” says the demon, smiling that eerie, voidlike smile. “I’m your new partner.”


	3. Chapter 3

In hindsight, Hank probably didn’t handle the situation that well. But in his defence, the literal demon he made a pact with for the life of his son materialised at his workplace and announced himself to be his new partner. 

So Hank thinks he’ll be excused for dragging said demon roughly into the men’s bathroom and slamming him up against the wall. 

“What in the hell and fuck,” Hank hisses, “are you doing here?”

The demon –  _Connor_ , apparently – doesn’t look perturbed at being pinned against a bathroom wall. He doesn’t look anything, and it’s the blank slate of his face that bothers Hank the most. The inhuman absence of  _any_  reaction. Surely someone has noticed that he has  _no_  emotions? That he’s physically incapable of feeling  _anything_?

“I needed an opportunity to get close to you,” he says in that hollow monotone. “To observe your behaviour while you fulfil your side of our bargain.”

“How did you even get a job here?” Hank demands. “How has nobody noticed that there’s something  _wrong_  with you?”

“Human minds are easily manipulated,” the demon – Connor,  _whatever_ – says. “And I deemed it necessary to integrate myself into your daily life by way of your employment.”

It’s… Not a bad idea. It’s actually incredibly logical. But that still doesn’t explain how he got the job. 

“A simple matter of bending physics to my will,” Connor says like he can read Hank’s mind and, oh god, he probably can. “I needed to place myself in a position close to you, so I did. Captain Fowler is under the impression he has hired a bright, competent young man fresh out of the academy with glowing references. No one but you can see me as I am.”

“Lucky fucking me,” Hank grumbles, shoving away from him. “So you’re around until you learn how to feel?”

“In essence, yes. All the while our contract is in place, no humans in my vicinity will be able to place the source of their…” He pauses as though trying to find the word, and reaches up to straighten his tie. “Uneasiness.”

“So I’ve got to spend the next however long being tailed by a wholeass demon who’s about as expressive as a  _toaster_ _,_  and no one else can figure out why you give them the creeps.”

“A surprisingly apt summation,” Connor says. “Of course, if you are adverse to the idea, I can return to my realm and leave you in peace. But you’ll never see your son again.”

“Okay,” says Hank. “Consider this your first lesson in human emotion.” In one sharp movement he draws his arm back and punches Connor hard in the face. The demon’s head snaps back, back hitting the wall with a loud thud. Hank’s knuckles ache and he shakes his hand out but the deep thrum of satisfaction is so worth it. “Don’t ever fucking use my son as leverage against me.”

Connor rubs his cheek and the angry red mark slowly disappears. “I see. That is… Bad?”

“What— Yes, it’s fucking bad! It makes you sound like a sociopath. People are usually slightly more empathetic when it comes to dead children!”

“Empathy. I am not familiar.”

“Oh my god,” says Hank. “This is going to be impossible.”

—

It’s… Easier than Hank expected. 

Somehow Connor manages to seamlessly slot himself into Hank’s life. No one questions it, but they give him a noticeably wide berth for reasons they can’t explain to themselves. It’s weird to think Hank can see what they can’t. The empty smiles and the hollow eyes. The way he makes no unnecessary movements, not even the faint shift of his chest to draw breath, no twitch of his jaw, or blink of his eyelids. 

But Hank has a pact to uphold. And when it’s over, he’ll have Cole again. 

More than worth it. 

“You have a dog, correct?” Connor says abruptly, looking away from his terminal. From the way he’d been staring at the screen, he’s probably read every available case file in the five minutes he’s been working. Fucking demons. 

“Yeah,” Hank says, not looking up from the file he’s reading. 

“I thought so. I sensed it when you summoned me. What’s your dog’s name?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I would like to know.”

An opportunity. Hank finally looks at him. “Why?”

Connor blinks. That’s a fucking first. “I do not understand the question.”

“Why’d you wanna know?”

“Well, because… Hm. I’m not sure.”

“Figures that’d be the first emotion you start feeling,” Hank says. “That’s curiosity. The desire to know something, good or bad, either because it’s useful or just because you want to.”

Connor tilts his head to one side. Jesus, two human reactions in one day. Hank’s being spoiled. “Curious,” he says softly. “I… Understand.”

“Hallelujah,” Hank mutters, startling when Connor gives a low hiss. “Christ, what was that for?”

“I am a demon,” Connor says pointedly. “Holy exclamations are harmful to me.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yes. That word means ‘praise God, you people’. It’s a call to prayer. It burns.”

“Oh,” says Hank. “Uh. Sorry?”

“Why?”

“Because I did something to hurt you.”

Nothing. Not surprising. 

Hank sighs. “Like, if you hurt someone and you didn’t mean to, physically or otherwise, you apologise because you feel bad. Or guilty, remorseful, whatever. Apologising is your way of explaining that you didn’t mean to do it, and you’re gonna try not to do it again.”

“I see. Does that apply to you punching me in the face when we met?”

“No. You were being an asshole and deserved it. So no, I’m not sorry about that.”

“Should I be sorry?”

“What?”

“For what I said about your son. That caused you emotional pain, yes? So I should feel guilt for having said it.”

“Oh. Uhh.. Yeah. Yeah, that would be a good way of looking at it.”

“Then I am sorry, Lieutenant.”

Hank eyes him suspiciously. “Alright, the words are fine, but do you mean it?”

Connor seems to think about that for a moment. He doesn’t look thoughtful, but he lowers his eyes and does that puppy-dog head tilt. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, you’re new to this. You’ll get there. And I’m sorry for… the, uh. Holy thing.”

“And what does one say in response to an apology?”

“Uhhh… That you accept the apology? That it’s okay, or no big deal?”

“Ah,” says Connor. “Then I accept your apology, Lieutenant.”

“Great,” says Hank. “And my dog’s called Sumo. Considering you were curious.”

“Yes,” says Connor, something unfamiliar in his usually flat tone. “I suppose I was.”

—

Connor is scarily handy to take on cases. He has an otherworldly sense of things, like he knows exactly what happened just by being at the scene of the crime. Which wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine, actually. 

It’s still unnerving to watch him stand there, completely still, only his desolate eyes moving as they sweep over the victim’s house will Hank does actual police work and collects samples from the body. 

“He was stabbed by his cleaner twenty-eight times,” Connor says softly, making Hank look up. “He was prone to fits of anger after excessive drug usage, traces of which are on the sideboard, and the cleaner couldn’t take anymore. When the victim came at him in the kitchen with the bat, he reached for the knife to defend himself.”

“That’s great, but we actually have to prove that’s what happened.”

“Of course,” Connor says. “The cleaner is hiding in the attic. I can sense his fear.”

“Oh,” says Hank. “Fuck, okay, let’s— Shit, we need to get him then.”

“I’ll do it,” Connor says, heading towards the attic. 

“Wait— Connor!” Hank lunges after him. “Alive and unharmed.”

“Why?”

“We need a confession. And if you harm him, it’s police brutality. Only in self defence. Only  _ever_ in self defence.”

Connor pauses. “You humans have such an amusing view of violence. War, for example?”

“Yeah, don’t even go there. And not all humans want to go to war. Just… Bring him down unharmed. And even if you  _can,_ don’t force him to confess with your… Mind thing.”

“I’m… Unsure.”

“Confused.”

“What?”

“Confused. When you don’t understand something and aren’t sure what to do. That’s confusion.”

Connor tilts his head in that way that Hank definitely hasn’t started to find endearing. “I find myself… Quite confused as of late.”

“That means you’re learning.”

Connor gives a slow smile. There’s something in it that wasn’t there before. It’s no longer that lifeless, false imitation. There’s something in it now that’s more…

_Human._

“Connor.”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“The perp?”

“Oh, of course.”

—

Connor is, as much as Hank hates to admit it, a  _brilliant_  partner. He’s calm and analytical, always keeps a cool head, he’s  _fire_  in the interrogation room, and Hank’s arrest record has never been higher. 

For someone with no  _actual_ experience in police work, Connor is quite the asset. 

Hank thinks he might miss him when this is all over. Of course, once this  _is_  over, he gets Cole back. So he tries not to think about the fact that he doesn’t want Connor gone just yet. 

As ridiculous as that is. He should be looking forward to losing the demon he’s babysitting. 

And yet he can’t seem to stop himself, two months down the line while they’re eating lunch at their desks and trying to figure out how to piece some evidence together. 

“Where do you live at the moment?” Hank asks, sipping his coffee. “You got a place nearby?”

Connor shakes his head, hands wrapped around a cup of jasmine tea he’s developed a fondness for. “No, I return to my realm.”

“Which is?”

“I suppose you would call it Hell.”

“Oh. Uh. What’s… What’s that like?”

“Incomprehensible,” Connor says with that smile that’s slowly turned teasing. “It’s not the fire and brimstone you’re taught in your religious buildings. It’s a place of peace. No eternal torment. It’s where souls go to redeem themselves. Once they’ve made penance, everything they were in life is swept away, and they return to the wheel of life to begin anew.”

“I… Feel like I shouldn’t know this. What happens after death. Feels like you’re telling me the secrets of the universe.”

“I would certainly like to share them with you,” Connor says. “I think it would bring you peace to know that your son is merely asleep.”

“That… Yeah.” Hank nods slowly, slightly overwhelmed. “Yeah, that’s comforting.”

“Comforting… The feeling of warmth and a sense of peace and safety, similar to relief.”

“Yeah, you’ve got it. Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” Connor says. 

“Then why do holy things harm you? Is God even real?”

Connor is quiet for a long moment. “In a way. There are many gods and no gods. Every god from every religion exists, but only to those who believe. If you do not believe, there is no god. If you do, there is. As a demon, I am unholy. Therefore all things holy harm me.”

“Were you always demon?”

“No,” says Connor and he sounds…  _sad._ “I was an angel. A celestial being. As all my kind began.”

“Shit,  _really?”_ An image of Connor pops into Hank’s mind, glowing and ethereal, flanked with majestic wings. 

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Connor sips his tea, stares into the mug intently. “I wanted to feel.”

Hank desperately wants to ask more, but the sadness in Connor’s eyes stops his tongue. He looks so much more human now. Softer, warmer. More vulnerable. 

“You’re welcome to stay with me,” Hank says after a heavy pause. “You’ve got to experience the human activity of sleeping. I reckon you’ll like it.”

The smile that graces Connor’s face is one Hank has never seen before. It’s bright and warm and tugs at something deep in Hank’s chest. 

“I would like that,” Connor says. “Thank you, Hank.”

It’s the first time he’s ever used his name. 


	4. Chapter 4

Hank forgets, somehow. 

Connor adapts so proficiently over the next few months that it’s so easy to forget that he isn’t human, that every emotion that slowly starts to bleed through his ever-livening face is completely new, never felt before. 

Hank forgets that he’s teaching a demon to feel. He forgets that this is him fulfilling a pact written in blood and sealed with a kiss. But he never forgets Cole. It just stops feeling like a bargain, and more like he’s waiting for his son to come home while he shows an awkward rookie the ropes on the force. 

So the reminder, when it comes, is so jarring that Hank feels like he’s been punched in the gut and his legs have been swept out from under him. 

Connor, with those stony eyes now hardened and filled with a new emotion Hank identifies as  _fury_ , gun held aloft in a hand that doesn’t tremble even once. The barrel is softly smoking, the air ringing with the echo of a single gunshot.

And the suspect. Dead on the floor with a single bullet hole bored clean through the exact center of his forehead. No human could make a shot that precise with a handgun at three hundred yards. 

“Connor…” Hank can hardly choke the name out. Connor lowers the gun, holsters it, turns to look at Hank with those eyes that now  _burn._

The suspect had run and Connor had chased, unconcerned that they were only investigating a disturbance, that they had no concrete evidence of a true crime. Connor had reacted like a predator; the suspect had sped off, so Connor gave chase. Hank had watched Connor sprint after him with inhuman speed and tried valiantly to catch up. His instincts had screamed at him, adrenaline surging, shouting at him to reach the suspect before Connor did, no matter the obstacles in his way. 

So while Connor tore after him, over rooftops and through urban farms, over moving trains and through buildings, Hank had taken the short cut, trusting his gut, to head the suspect off before Connor could catch him. It took a shit-ton of effort and a lot of breathless swearing, but he collared the guy before Connor could get his hands on him, pulling him up short and reaching for his cuffs. 

He hadn’t expected the guy to throw him off a building. Nor had expected the low growl of fury Connor had let out when he caught Hank’s hand and hauled him up from the ledge to safety. Hank had only been able to stutter, choking on his fear, and the suspect had kept on running, getting further and further away. 

Until Connor drew his gun and fired. 

“Connor,” Hank chokes again, struggling upright. “You— We weren’t supposed to— He could’ve been  _innocent_!”

Connor’s furious expression smooths out into that calm mask once more. “He ran. That was indicative of his guilt.”

“Yeah, because two officers turned up at his house! He was probably terrified!”

“I do not care,” Connor says, lip curling.  _Disdain._ Another new one. “Had he not attempted to kill you, I would have pursued and apprehended him.”

“So— What, you shot him because he threw me off the roof?!”

“Yes,” says Connor, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, fact, unarguable. “He tried to kill you. That was enough.”

“Connor…” Hank doesn’t have a clue how to make him understand. Doesn’t even know where to start. “You can’t just—  _Kill_  people. He might’ve had a family. He might not’ve even been guilty. And you  _killed_ him.”

“Had he succeeded and you had fallen to your death,” Connor says, “he would still be alive and suffering  _much_  worse. It’s a mercy that his own death was quick.”

Hank’s head spins and his palm aches from the line of the blade that has still yet to heal. A reminder of the bargain struck, that Connor is not human, that’s he’s a  _demon_ , and he has very specific opinions on the matters of life and death. 

“This is  _wrong_ ,” Connor.” Hank clenches his fist around that pain. “You can’t just take lives because you want to— Because you think it’s  _right_. I’m alive, you saved me, and now he’s dead. We don’t even know if he’s guilty.”

“I can find out,” Connor says. “If I touch the body, I can—“

“ _No_ _!_ ” Hank yells, frustration boiling over. “It’s not the  _point!_  Killing is  _wrong_ _,_ Connor! I’ve told you, violence in self-defence, and never  _murder._ God Almighty…” 

Connor flinches slightly at that, a brief wince twitching across his face. “He was trying to kill you,” Connor says again, though he sounds slightly less confident. “I couldn’t… Let that go unpunished.”

“You’re not judge, jury, and executioner,” Hank snaps. “You don’t get to decide who lives and who dies.”

“Unless I decide to bring your son back,” Connor says, and that’s a sharp, stinging slap in the face. 

“Wow,” Hank says, laughing bitterly. “Wow, that’s… That’s fucking low, Connor, even for you.” He runs a hand over his face. “I thought… You know, I really thought you were learning. But you’re always gonna be the same, fucking  _dead_ - _inside_  piece of shit demon. You’re not gonna change.”

Hank turns and heads towards the fire escape. Connor does not call after him. He does not hear following footsteps. 

Something aches in his heart. He rubs a hand against his chest and heads home, suddenly inexplicably exhausted. 

Connor isn’t there when he arrives. 

He didn’t expect him to be.

—

Hank wakes to a warm weight over his legs and the smell of fresh coffee drifting through from the kitchen. He rubs sleepy eyes and gives Sumo a fond pat on his huge head before sitting up and yawning, scratching absently at his neck. 

When his eyes can focus enough, he sees the figure standing in his doorway with a steaming cup in each of his hands and an expression of acute unease on his face. 

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Connor says softly. 

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” Hank says. 

“We have a pact,” Connor answers. “I heard you, and I answered.”

“Your pact,” Hank repeats with a sneer. “‘Cause that’s all you care about. I should throw your ass the fuck out of my house.”

“Understandable,” Connor says. “But I would like to speak to you before you defenestrate me.”

“Before what.”

“You throw me out the window. Or the door. Whichever is your preference.”

“Was… Was that a  _joke?”_

“I believe so.”

Hank sighs. “Gimme the coffee and we can talk.”

Connor sighs and steps into the room proper. Hank ignores the way it sounds heavy with relief and takes the offered cup as Connor sits down lightly on the bed. The mattress doesn’t even dip beneath him. Sumo huffs softly and Connor scratches his ears absently. Dog warmed up to the demon quicker than he did to Hank. Traitor. 

“I am,” Connor starts haltingly, “struggling. Emotions are very… They are a lot. I seem to be experiencing multiple feelings at once.”

“Yeah, that’s how it is,” Hank says, sipping his coffee. Black, burning hot, six sugars. Exactly how he likes it. “You never just feel one at a time. Emotions are messy fuckers. In rare cases you can feel every emotion under the sun at once.”

“I suspected as much,” Connor murmurs. “It’s… Overwhelming. I still don’t have a name for a lot of them and it, I believe, frightens me. Some emotions are more pronounced than others. Harder to ignore. They make logic very difficult.”

“Yup, that’s the bitch,” Hank says. “That’s humanity. It’s not just empathy or feeling  _alive._ It’sselfishness, it’s making mistakes, it’s fucking up and apologising, it’s laughing until you cry, it’s crying until you laugh. There’s no reason to it. That’s just how it is.”

Connor is silent for a long moment. He puts his own cup down on the bedside table. He wrings his hands together, a particular tic Hank has noticed more and more over the past month. “Do emotions cause you physical pain?”

“Oh, shit yeah.” Hank snorts. “Like a bitch.”

“I am hurting, Hank,” Connor says and his eyes, that Hank has never until now noticed are oak-brown and not black as pitch, are full of the pain he speaks of. “There’s a pain in my chest I cannot explain. I am… Yesterday, I can’t stop thinking about yesterday and it  _hurts._ Hank, I… if I could go back and take back my words I would. They were wrong and I shouldn’t have said them. I’m… I’m  _so sorry_ , Hank.”

“That’s… That’s a fuckin’ great apology,” Hank croaks. “Much better than last time.”

“Because I mean it,” Connor says earnestly. “I know I do.”

“Yeah,” says Hank. “I know you do. And I accept your apology, you hell-sent asshole.”

Connor’s entire body seems to sag, a far cry from the unsettling stillness from four months ago. “Thank you,” Connor murmurs. “Having you angry at me is… I do not like guilt or despair.”

“No one does,” Hank says. “But guilt helps us make ourselves better. Guilt means you’re learning what’s right and what’s not. And  _that_  is human.”

Connor smiles at him and it’s a new smile. Soft and unbearably gentle and it tugs something deep in Hank’s chest. He sips his coffee quickly, hoping to hide the blush in his cheeks. 

“I will take Sumo for a walk while you shower and dress,” Connor tells him. “I enjoy walking him. It’s… relaxing.”

“Connor?”

“Yes, Hank?”

“You’re getting there. Emotions are a tricky business for everyone. Even me and I’m old as hell.”

Connor hesitates before patting his thigh to call Sumo to him. The huge animal slides off the bed with a thud to trot over to him. 

“Thank you, Hank,” Connor murmurs, and leaves. 

—

“Hank?”

“Mmmmm?”

“Are you awake?”

“Mmmmm…”

That’s all Hank can manage, warm and cosy, sprawled out on the couch while a movie plays quietly on the tv. He’s not paying attention, drifting in and out of a quiet doze. He’d put it on mostly for Connor’s benefit, keep him occupied while Hank slept off a food coma. 

Connor’s a real good cook, it turns out. 

“May I ask you a question?”

“Mmhmm… Go ‘head…”

“What does love feel like?”

And Hank’s awake. God damn it.

He sits up, rubbing the heels of his hand against his eyes and takes a deep breath to clear the sleepiness from his mind. Connor is sitting cross-legged in the armchair, in that blue suit he never fucking takes off. Surprise, surprise, nobody at the station mentions it. It’s just Hank that it bothers. 

“Why d’you ask?” 

“It’s the feeling I’m struggling to catalogue. I can recognise almost every other emotion now. I can understand the responses they all trigger and can differentiate when they overlap. But love is… Foreign to me. I have not felt it, I do not recognise it.”

“Right, uh… Well…” He needs caffeine for this. Or alcohol. Anything, really, he’ll take at this point. He reaches for the half-finished beer on the coffee table and takes a sip, grimacing at the lukewarm temperature. Connor leans forward and touches the side of the glass bottle with the tip of his forefinger. Ice frosts the glass and when Hank takes another sip, it’s as cold as if he’d just taken it out of the fridge.

“Holy shit,” Hank says. “Thanks.” Connor inclines his head. “So, uh... What… Do you have a…  _Any_  idea about love?”

“No,” says Connor. “I believe it’s the last emotion I need to learn.”

“Oh.” It’s… Nearly over? One last emotion and Hank’s end of the deal is upheld?

Why does that feel like a punch in the gut?

“Love is…” Hank flounders, trying to think of anything to say. “There’s… Well, there’s different kinds. There’s superficial love, familial love, romantic love… Shit, Connor, it’s a whole mess of crap.”

“Familial love I understand,” says Connor. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Connor nods. “But you didn’t teach me that one.”

“Oh. Does that…?”

“It doesn’t effect our deal in any way.”

“Good…”

“Superficial love, as you put it, I also understand, to some extent. For example, your passion for the Detroit Gears and your overfondness for whiskey and red meat even though you know what they’re doing to your health.”

“Connor, if this is a pretence for a fuckin’  _lecture_ -“

“But romantic love,” Connor continues, unhindered, “I do not understand.”

“Me neither,” Hank jokes lamely. “Look, it’s… Love is a… Fuck, I don’t...” He groans heavily. All that comes to mind are the hazy scriptures his grandma used to recite before every Christmas dinner. He doesn’t know why he thinks of them now, but there they are, shoving their way into the forefront of his mind, refusing to be ignored. 

_Love is patient, love is kind._

_It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud._

_It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs._

_Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth._

_It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres._

_Love never fails._

Not like he can say that do a demon. Actively quote scripture at him? He’ll fry. 

“Love is light,” Hank finally says. “It’s comfort, it’s safety. It’s looking at someone and feeling like nothing else matters because they’re with you. It’s hot coffee made just the way you like it, it’s the way the smell of jasmine tea calms your nerves even though you don’t like the taste of it. It’s the way you feel like you can recharge when you’re alone together.”

Hank needs to stop speaking. He needs to shut up. He can’t stop himself.

“It’s brown eyes,” he says softly. “And the colour blue. It’s the smell of ice and the cold dawn. It’s rude, overly-personal questions being asked at four AM because you’re curious and still getting an answer when they want to sleep.”

Connor moves slowly while Hank spills his guts like a fool, creeping forward like someone trying not to startle a wild animal. When Hank finishes, Connor is there, face inches away from his, eyes warmer than Hank’s ever seen them. His lips hover a hair’s breadth away from Hank’s and he smells like a sunrise in winter. 

“I understand,” Connor murmurs, and closes the distance between them. 

And Hank’s palm  _burns_ _,_ the sign of their pact searing white-hot in his skin, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t  _fucking_  care, because Connor’s lips are on his own, ice-cold and impossibly soft. His hands are cupping Hank’s face like he’s the most fragile thing in the world, but Hank can’t have that. He doesn’t want tender. He wants  _Connor_ and all of the rich, demonic energy that thrums under his skin. He wants that so much it hurts, and because he’s beautiful and otherworldly and  _perfect_ , Connor knows. Connor knows and Hank doesn’t need to say anything, because the demon’s hands move up into Hank’s hair, curling into the strands and  _tugging_ , pulling Hank’s head back so he can bite along his jaw.

“Connor-“ Hank gasps, because he can’t do anything else, hands gripping the lapels of his suit. Connor  _growls,_  low and warm and rich, and clambers up into Hank’s lap so that Hank has to crane his head back to catch his lips again, groaning as Connor slots their mouths together. His tongue is cold against Hank’s own, but it’s addictive, the sinful way it slides against his, the taste of jasmine and peppermint filling his senses. Connor’s hands push through his hair, messing it up and tugging, giving soft little growls into his mouth. 

“Hank,” Connor purrs, nipping at his lower lip. “ _Hank.”_  Strange to hear his name falling from a demon’s lips like a benediction, but it sends a shiver up his spine anyway, and Connor’s hands are suddenly gone from his hair, instead tugging his shirt up and off, throwing it across the room. 

“I want you,” Connor hums, biting softly at the pulse point in his neck. “You’ve taught me desire, Hank. Now teach me  _pleasure.”_

Hank’s mouth runs dry and the breath is snatched from his lungs, but he  _wants_ , and his cock twitches in his sweats and of course Connor notices, entire face lighting up like he’s been given a goddamn gift. He slowly grinds his hips down and Hank shudders beneath him, hands gripping his hips. 

“Bedroom,” Hank gasps out. “We gotta—  _Bedroom._ ”

There’s a disconcerting shift in the air around him, as if the walls of the living room fold in on themselves, and then his back drops and he’s no longer leaning against the back of the couch but sprawled out on his mattress, an eager demon straddling his waist. 

“What the fuck?” Hank splutters, looking around. “How— How did you—“

“I can bend space and time to my will,” Connor says, trailing his hands over Hank’s chest. “I’m impatient, what can I say?”

“That you’re going to ride me into the mattress,” Hank says. “Because that’s all I can think about right now. That, and how much I fucking hate this stupid suit.”

Connor smiles and Hank swears he sees the too-long points of sharp canines flash behind full lips. “Better?” The demon purrs and it takes Hank a moment to adjust to the sudden, jarring image of Connor  _completely naked_  above him. 

“Uhhhhhhhh,” says Hank. “Yeah-  _Yes._ Very better— Much better.”

He’s… Fucking  _magnificent_. Pale skin, freckled along his shoulders, smooth planes of subtle musculature over his arms and abdomen. His cock has a mouth-watering curve to it, and it’s hard and leaking against his stomach. 

“Hank,” Connor mewls, leaning down to trace the ink of Hank’s chest tattoo with that cool, devilish tongue. “I  _want_  you…”

Hank can’t make words happen. He tries and fails so he settles for words, sliding his hands round to cup his palms round Connor’s ass. Connor gives a shocked moan, back arching. 

A thought slams into Hank’s head like a speeding truck. 

“Have you never…?” 

Connor shakes his head, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “Not in this body.”

Hank doesn’t even know what that means. But he really doesn’t care enough to try and understand. Instead he palms at Connor’s ass, drawing soft, hitched moans from his throat, and rolls his hips up to chase the friction he wants to badly. 

“ _Hank_ ,” Connor moans, nails biting into his skin. “ _Please._ ”

“I’ve gotta— You need to move so I can get my—“

Ah. No, Connor doesn’t need to move at all. A simple thought and Hank’s sweats are gone and the abrupt sensation of cold thighs against his overheated waist makes him shiver. 

“I want those back,” Hank says. “Those are my favourite sweats.”

Connor grins and leans down to kiss him again, deeply, tantalisingly, rolling their hips together agonisingly slow. Hank gasps into Connor’s mouth, back arching, hands stroking every inch of icy skin he can reach. 

“ _Fuck me_ ,” Connor purrs against his mouth, low and rough. 

Hank tries to think through the lust clouding his mind. Logic. He needs to be logical about this. They need lube. And logic. 

Maybe just lube. 

“We don’t,” Connor gasps softly, still rocking his hips against Hank’s and chasing all coherent thought from his head.  

“I don’t— Want to hurt you.”

“Demon,” Connor breathes through a moan. 

“What—“ Hank starts, but chokes off as Connor shifts up on his knees to curl his fingers loosely around Hank’s cock, lining up and sinking down slowly. 

Hank cries out, he can’t help it. He wasn’t expecting— He didn’t know  _what_  to expect, but the slick, impossibly tight  _heat_  of Connor sinking down onto him wasn’t it. He shudders, gripping Connor’s thighs tightly, trying to catch his breath. 

“Fuck,  _Connor_ -“ Hank grits out, breathless. 

Connor gives a low, shaky moan, back arched beautifully. He looks ethereal like this, almost holy, but Hank can feel the low surge of dark energy pulsing under Connor’s skin, and knows beyond all doubt that he’s so much more than that. 

Connor rolls his hips and Hank’s vision blurs as pleasure crackles through his abdomen. Above him, Connor pants quickly, mouth slack in a loose ‘O’ of pleasure, breathy gasps falling from his lips as he rocks down onto Hank’s cock. 

“H-Hank, I—“ Connor shudders with a loud whine, and when he looks down at Hank, his eyes are black, but they’re anything but empty. “I-I,” he tries again, but a sharp buck of Hank’s hips makes him cry out. 

Not good enough. Hank bends one leg, an arm moving up to wrap around Connor’s waist, and with a quick shove in a manoeuvre he’s not too old to pull off yet, he has Connor spread out beneath him, flushed and wanting, hard cock straining against his stomach. The demon looks up at him with those wide eyes, sclera completely taken over by black and Hank loves—

He  _loves—_

Hank rolls his hips hard and fast, hands braced on the mattress either side of Connor’s head. He gets to watch as the clarity of thought leaves his face, as his eyes lose focus and his mouth goes slack, a litany of moans falling from his lips as Hank hits deep enough to force the breath out of his lungs. It’s  _beautiful_  and Hank won’t last much longer, pleasure coiling through his abdomen as he drives into the tight heat of Connor’s ass. He shudders and bucks his hips as Connor’s legs wrap around his waist, cool against his heated skin. 

“ _H-Haaaank_ _,”_ Connor moans, back arching. His voice is layered like he’s speaking with thousands of voices at once.  _“Fuck, Hank, don’t stop…”_

“I won’t,” Hank pants, stroking a hand over Connor’s ribs. “I want you to come for me.”

_“S-So close,”_ Connor whines, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Hank leans down to kiss him and Connor gives a growling moan into his mouth, arms wrapping around Hank’s shoulders so he can cling to him, cock rubbing between their stomachs. 

Connor shivers and tears his mouth away from Hank’s, throwing his head back with a shuddering cry as he comes, spilling over their stomachs, clawing desperately at Hank’s shoulders. It triggers something primal in Hank, the energy thrumming over Connor’s skin seeping into his own, twisting and amplifying, and with a breathless cry, Hank follows into oblivion, vision narrowing down until everything is  _Connor,_ his beautiful face, his intoxicating scent, the  _taste_  of him heavy on Hank’s tongue. 

His arms shake with the effort of holding himself up any longer, and with a soft groan as Connor tugs weakly at his shoulders, he falls, sprawling across the blessedly cool body beneath him. 

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Connor says softly. Hank grunts sleepily, too tired to make sense of the words, especially when Connor’s chilly fingers start combing gently through his hair, lulling him closer and closer to sleep. 

“Stay,” Hank mumbles. Connor’s fingers pause in his hair. 

“Sleep, Hank,” Connor murmurs. “I’ll stay.”

Hank hums contentedly and succumbs. 

—

“Wake up!”

Hank groans into his pillow. 

“C’mon, wake up!”

Hank groans again. Louder this time. 

“Daddy, c’mon, I wanna go to the park with Sumo!”

Hank’s eyes snap open and he scrambles upright in bed, looking around wildly. 

Right into the beaming face of his son. 

“C-Cole?” Hank chokes. 

“Come on, daddy, I wanna go play!”

“Sure, kiddo, just… give me a second to wake up okay? Then we can go to the park. Daddy’s… Daddy’s still half asleep.”

“Okay!” Cole chirps, beaming. He turns to scramble off the bed but Hank lunges forward, pulling Cole into hug. He has to be sure,  _has_  to know for certain he’s not dreaming. 

Little arms wrap around his neck tightly. Hank’s eyes sting. It’s Cole, he’s  _here_ , alive and warm and  _breathing._

“Daddy, loves you so much,” Hank chokes out. “You know that right, Cole? Daddy loves you  _so much_.”

“I know!” Cole says with all the relentless cheeriness of a six year old. “I love you, too, daddy.”

Hank takes a shuddering breath and, somehow, lets go. “Go play with Sumo in the living room. I’ll be out to make breakfast in a minute, okay?”

“Okay!” Cole hops of the bed and tears off into the living room. Sumo barks happily and the soft giggles make Hank’s breath catch. 

Alone for the moment, he covers his face and lets the tears fall, thick and heavy, silent sobs shaking his shoulders. His son, his  _son. He’s alive._ He’s home where he belongs, the pact worked and Cole is  _here._

Hank tries desperately to wrestle himself back under control. He has to get up, get dressed, make breakfast and take his son to the park. 

Fresh tears spill over and Hank’s cheeks ache with the size of his smile. First thing he’s going to do, though, is kiss Connor all over his stupid face. 

Or he would if… If Connor were here. 

Hank scrambles out of bed - when did he put pyjamas on – and hurried out into the living room. Cole and Sumo are rolling around on the floor playing together and the sight threatens to make more tears come. But there is absolutely no sign of Connor. 

He’s gone. 

The pact was upheld. 

Slowly, Hank unwraps the bandage from round his hand. The cut has healed over completely. There’s not even a scar left behind. 

It’s over. 

Hank swallows thickly. Cole’s high giggles bring him back to himself. 

“Cole?” Hank calls, fighting to keep his voice light. “Would you like some pancakes?”


	5. Chapter 5

Connor has disappeared from Hank’s life so entirely it’s almost like the past six months were nothing more than a dream. But Cole slots so easily back into his life it was like he was never gone, and Hank would almost believe the accident had just been a horrific nightmare, if not the the ache in his heart left in the wake of Connor’s absence. 

But nothing comes close to the joy of having Cole in his arms again. The walks in the park with Sumo galloping around and Cole perched on his shoulders; that’s true happiness, and Hank’s broken heart mends like it was never shattered. 

It’s unsettling, though, to have conflicting memories inside his head. He  _knows_  Connor was here with him,  _knows_  that the bargain was struck and fulfilled. But every case they’ve worked together holds no trace of Connor’s involvement. No one at the precinct remembers him. No one at the precinct remembers the accident or the funeral. Hank has to grapple with the fact that he  _knows_  he has to drop Cole off at kindergarten on Monday, and knows beyond all doubt that Chris’ wife Sasha will pick him and Damien up together while Hank and Chris are at work, and Hank can collect Cole from her place when he’s finished for the day. 

He doesn’t know how he knows, but this is Connor seamlessly threading the broken parts of his life back together, fixing all the little holes and tears to give Hank the life he wanted, happy and whole, with his son. 

Hank also doesn’t fail to notice the way his garage has been repurposed entirely, rebuilt into an extension. It’s fine, he never used it, but Connor’s idea of decorating a child’s bedroom leaves a lot to be desired. 

It means that the next weekend is spent laughing with Cole and covered in paint. 

And yet. 

God, he feels so ungrateful. He has his son back, his family, his home is happy and warm and his head is clear for the first time in months. He’s been given a routine to fall into easily, he doesn’t have to worry about childcare, he has a renewed passion for his job. 

But  _fuck_ , does he miss Connor. He doesn’t even have anything to remember him by except memories that seem to get fuzzier day by day. 

He tries not to resent him for it. It was a deal, after all. Learn from Hank, return his son. That was all. It’s not Connor’s fault he took Hank’s heart with him when he left. 

Except it  _is_  his fault for being so fucking easy to love and going from icy and lifeless to warm and goofy. It’s all his fault that Hank fell head over heels when that dead mask cracked and Connor became…

_Human._

Hank pushes the pain down. Eventually, he’ll forget. One day, this will be a long distant memory. He has his son. Nothing else matters. 

—

“Daddy?” Cole’s sleepy sigh stops Hank in the middle of the story he’s reading aloud. 

“What is it, kiddo?”

Cole rubs his eyes and looks up at Hank, little brow pinched in something like sadness. “When is Connor coming back?”

Hank starts, almost throwing the book in his hands across the room. “How— How do you know that name, Cole?”

“Connor is my friend!” Cole says. “He looked after me while I was gone away.”

Seems like Hank’s not the only one who remembers. 

“Looked after you?” Hank fights to keep the tremor out of his voice. “What do you mean?”

“ _Well_ ,” Cole says like he’s about to tell the most revelatory story of all time. He’s excited that Hank seems to have forgotten that it’s bed time. Means he gets to stay up later. Hank’s gonna have to disappoint him. “I had to go away from here. And I was scared because I didn’t know where you was. But Connor was there and he told me stories and said you were waiting for me to come back to home!”

Connor watched over Cole’s soul all that time? Kept him safe while Hank taught him to feel?

God, Hank is  _so_  in love it hurts. 

“I’m… I’m so glad he kept you safe while you were away,” Hank says. 

“I don’t feel like I was gone anywhere,” Cole says, frowning. “But I was?”

“You… Yeah,” Hank nods. “But daddy had to bring you back. Daddy missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too!” Cole chirps. “And then I had a dream with Connor and he said it was time to go home and that I could see you. And he said I should look after you so you’re never sad again!” Cole’s wide beam shrinks a little. “You’re not sad anymore are you, daddy?”

“No, Cole,” Hank says like a liar. “You’re home with me.”

“But do you miss Connor?”

Kids always know. 

“Yes. Very much.”

“Can’t you bring him back?” Cole asks. “You’re the best police in the world!”

The faith of a son in his father is a heady thing. Hank smiles softly and ruffles Cole’s hair. “Connor is very far away now,” he says gently. “And we don’t even know if Connor wants to come back.”

“He does,” Cole says seriously like he also knows all the secrets of the universe. “He told me.”

Hank doesn’t know what to do with that. If Connor wanted to stay, why would he leave? After everything? It was always just a pact to him, he was always going to leave when this was over. 

But… 

The last emotion Connor had to learn was love. Had he more than understood it? Had he felt it?

“Alright,” Hank hears himself say while his thoughts swirl dizzyingly. “Bedtime, kiddo.” He kisses Cole’s forehead and tucks him in. 

“Love you, daddy,” Cole mumbles sleepily. 

“Love you, too,” Hank murmurs back and closes the door softly behind him. 

He makes a decision. 

—

Because Chris and Sasha are perfect, they take Cole for the evening because Damien wants a sleepover. 

“We’ll take them swimming,” Chris says cheerfully. “Then we can meet for lunch after. Sound good?”

“Sounds great,” Hank says. “I’m one phone call away if you need me.” He kisses Cole goodbye and watches until the car turns a corner and disappears out of sight before he heads back inside, anticipation shivering down his spine. 

He shuts Sumo away in his bedroom again. He doesn’t complain, just sprawls all over the bed like the lazy boy he is. Hank grabs his tablet and brings up Kamski’s email, the only shred of concrete proof he has other than fuzzy memories that Connor was every really here. 

He goes through the motions carefully. Lights the candles, draws the runes painstakingly carefully on the floor, chalk dusting his fingers white. He has to erase lines and start again because his hands are shaking so bad. But it’s not fear and desperation this time. 

It’s hope. 

He sits back on his feet. And waits. He waits until his knees ache from the hard floor and the temperature in the room begins to drop. He waits until the clock on the wall ticks closer and closer to midnight. He waits until the line between his realm and the next shimmer and ripple, boundaries lowering as they collide. 

With the same sharpened kitchen knife, Hank draws the blade across his palm. Blood wells and drips into the circle. It hurts this time with no alcohol or grief numbing his senses, but he doesn’t stop. Can’t stop. 

His chant is different this time. He knows exactly who he wants to summon, he knows exactly who he needs to see. He doesn’t need to offer anything or beseech the help of any unknown dark entities. 

_“Connor,”_ he says softly.  _“_ _Audite_ _me.”_

_Hear me._

Hank holds his breath. This has to work.  _Has_  to. 

And then, between one blink and the next, his call is answered, and the circle is full. 

“Hello, Hank.” Connor’s eyes are impossibly warm. The sight of him steals Hank’s breath but he scrambles to his feet anyway. 

“Hey, Connor,” Hank says, hopelessly adoring. “I missed you.”

Connor’s smile is sad and a little confused. “I don’t understand how. You were supposed to forget me.”

“How could I?” Hank says. 

“It’s the way it goes,” Connor tells him. “The way these things have always been. Once the pact is fulfilled you forget it ever happened. You weren’t supposed to remember.”

Hank knows the answer, inexplicably, without ever being told. This supernatural shit is seriously bad for his sanity. 

“That night,” Hank says. “Our last night together. You bit your lip and you bled.”

Connor’s eyes widen in understanding. “You kissed me.”

“And tasted your blood.”

“You asked me to stay.”

“I made a pact with you without even trying,” Hank says shakily, giving him an unsteady smile. “But you left, so I remembered you.”

Connor exhales shakily. “Are you not happy, Hank?” He looks so sad, like a kicked puppy. A kicked, demonic puppy. “I thought I had given you what you wanted.”

“You did,” Hank says. “And something I didn’t even know I needed. And then you took it away. So I want to make another deal with you.”

Connor looks at him, expression carefully blank, his inexperienced emotions carefully hidden. “What do you wish of me?”

Hank grins. “I want a boyfriend,” he says. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find a handsome demon that drives me quite literally insane sometimes?”

That knocks the blank expression right off Connor’s face, much to Hank’s satisfaction. He stares at him, eyes wide, jaw dropped. He looks hilariously blindsided. And then that soft blush seeps over his cheeks and he’s smiling, grinning back with the light of the sun. 

“I might,” he says. “What will you give me as recompense, if I find this demon for you?”

“A home,” Hank says softly. “A soft bed to sleep in, warm arms holding him whenever he wants. A huge, lazy dog to slobber all over him. Sleepy kisses in the morning over coffee and jasmine tea. Cuddles on the couch while we pretend we’re watching a movie. A son who’d love him like a father.” Hank blinks and tries not to let the tears fall. “And the love of an old, foolish police officer.”

Awe is an intriguing emotion on its own. Seeing it shining from Connor’s face is like seeing the eighth wonder of the world glowing in his living room. Hank’s chest swells with hope. 

Connor’s hands are suddenly fisted in his shirt, and when he yanks Hank forward to crash their lips together, Hank clings to him just as tightly. Those cool lips he’s missed so much, the clear, fresh taste of jasmine and peppermint.

“I hear you,” Connor breathes against his lips. “And I answer.”

Hank feels the pact seal somewhere deep inside himself. Not in his heart, it feels even deeper than that, like his soul has been eternally bound to another and nothing could rip them apart. 

A pact made with love and sealed with a kiss. 

What could be stronger?


End file.
